


The Edges Are No Longer Parallel

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Hiatus, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: Patrick just concluded that questioning his relationship to Pete is pointless anyway. It doesn’t matter, does it. They’re doing fine, everything is fine so really, there is no need to define anything. Sometimes, best friends are weird, and the lines between love and hate are blurred and mixed together.If you love someone like Pete, you just need to take what you can get, and grit your teeth through everything else. The screaming is worth it when you know that there will be soft whispers against you skin, coming from the same mouth. The hurtful words hurt so much less when the lips they came from kiss yours, trail down your neck and find their way to other places on your body. It doesn’t matter if it breaks your heart, because your heart always grows back together.~~~When an old fight comes up, Pete and Patrick decide to resolve it in old-fashioned manners.Basically, Post-Hiatus smut with angst.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Holidays are over, time to trade fluff for angst and smut!  
> We have a lot of (great!) Hiatus angst, but I wanted something set after the Hiatus. Obviously an AU that never happened.  
> I have been working on this for a few weeks now, but I wanted to post this before 2017 starts. Mostly so that I can get this out of my head. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, and English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes, weird grammar, and weirdly worded sentences. 
> 
> Title from a Morrissey song of the same name.

In retrospect, Patrick isn’t even sure how it started again.

It was a fight, sure. But what did they argue about in the first place? Music, of course, something with the lyrics, and the use of a certain sample, something that seemed miniscule, small and unimportant in the beginning.  
It somehow wasn’t, and the seemingly minor detail turned into a full-blown fight. The tension that had been building up for weeks all unloading into this one fight. One that got louder and louder and eerily familiar.  
At one point, Joe and Andy stood up, ready to leave. Unwilling to see another catastrophe unfold in front of their eyes. Joe said nothing, but Andy sent Pete and Patrick a glare so intense that they stopped fighting, their faces red and brows furrowed in anger, yet silently awaiting Andy’s words.  
“We’re leaving,” the drummer announced. As if there was any doubt about that to begin with. “You can spend all night here with your dick-measuring contest for all I care. But when we come back tomorrow, you better have this shit sorted out.” His expression remained the same, but the tone of his voice leaves no doubt. He didn’t wait for a response, and left the singer and the bassist of his band behind like two scolded children.

“Changing the song almost completely once we’re done recording is just stupid!” Pete sighs in frustration, pinching his nose and desperately wishing he were allowed to take harder drugs than prescribed pills and tame headache meds. “It’s wasting studio time. No, it’s wasting _everyone’s_ time.”  
“We need to change it because it sucks,” Patrick spits out; he had more eloquent explanations and elaboration on why the song sucked, but after countless repetitions he can’t be bothered anymore. “We tried it, and it doesn’t sound good. So, we’ll re-do it, no big deal.”  
“No big deal, huh?” Pete retorts in anger. “It kind of is a big deal, you know. Besides, no one except you think it sucks. In fact, we all like it, except for you.”  
“So, does my opinion not matter anymore?” Patrick yells.

“Oh, do whatever the fuck you want, Patrick,” Pete hisses, grabbing his hoodie and making his way to the door. “I get it, you must play the role of the misunderstood musical genius at all cost, since you like yourself so much in it. And oh, that role fits you so well, doesn’t it? I’ll leave it to you. Hell, maybe we should just leave _everything_ to you.”

“Fuck you, Pete!” Patrick yells, unusually shrill and clearly agitated. He’s falling back on curse words as a response, which is never a good sign. Pete knows he has crossed a line, though he is not exactly sure which of the many lines drawn around Patrick’s personal space he has violated. He doesn’t wait for a witty response, just slams the door shut, leaving Patrick behind alone, slumped over the table and face torn up in anger and resentment.

 

 

The rooms have changed over the years; different houses, states, cities; anonymous hotel rooms throughout the world, but the outcome is always the same.  
Once he is settled in, Pete sends his words through the ether. He’s written better metaphors and more elaborate words, but right now the bare bones of these banal syllables serve his cause well enough.  
Now, all he has to do is wait. Pete drags himself to the shower; the least he can do is smell nice.

 

Patrick’s phone buzzes. He pretends to be surprised, even though he knows exactly what message will be displayed on the screen.

Pete (23:58, XX/XX/XXXX)  
_We need to sort this out. Come over._

 

It just needs these words for Patrick. He always comes over. He hates himself for it but he can’t stop, couldn’t stop once, will never be able to stop.

 

_Come over._  
There is no question and no hesitation.

 

 

Patrick knocks on the door and Pete opens, hair unruly and wet from a shower but the exhaustion of the day’s events still on face. He looks older somehow, or maybe that’s just the unfortunate lightning. Patrick pushes away the thought of how many years he has known this face; or worse, how many years he has known the exact same expression worn on it. Pete doesn’t seem surprised at all to see Patrick turning up in the middle of the night, messy hair tucked away under a hat and sleep-deprived eyes looking at him angrily.  
“Patrick,” Pete simply says, and a whole spectrum of emotions buried in this one utterance of his name. “You came. You’re kind of late. Come in.” Pete moves away from the door, his extended hand showing his guest the way inside as if there was any confusion on where to go. Patrick brushes against him when he walks past, maybe with a little bit too much force.

“That was a shitty thing you did today. What made you so sure I’d come over?” Patrick asks angrily, arms crossed over his chest and real feelings hidden behind anger.  
“You always come,” Pete points out.  
“You always ask me to,” Patrick replies harshly. “You can’t live without me. You will always be begging for me to come, always.” His words are laced with venom and the familiar bitterness of an all-too familiar fight. Pete just shrugs his shoulders; there had once been a time where he would have denied what Patrick just said, but they were past that stage. They both knew it would have been a lie. It has always been a lie and a pretty unconvincing one to begin with, so Pete doesn’t bother anymore.

Patrick frowns. “What do you want?” He asks, even though they both know the answer while at the same time they don’t.  
“You, of course.” Pete’s voice is low, almost inaudible. “I want you, Patrick. I need you.”  
“You don’t need _me_ ,” Patrick says through gritted teeth, “you only need me for self-affirmation. You’re just taking the parts of me you like, the ones that appeal to you, and throw the rest aside. Like always.”  
Pete makes a disappointed face and shakes his head. “Not true. I want every part of you, even the ugly ones.” He takes a step closer towards Patrick, and now his voice is sickly sweet. “Even the one, _especially_ the one that is still in love with me, after everything we did – through vans and cheap hotels, bus bunks and platinum records, ugly break ups and the black rainbow years of the hiatus…”

  
“Shut up,” Patrick hisses, “shut up, Pete, for once, just _shut up_!” Pete’s words were everywhere, they were in Patrick’s mouth when he was singing and they were in Patrick’s ears and in front of his eyes and they won’t leave him alone, they won’t let go and Patrick is so, so tired of them. Pete whispers something against Patrick’s neck, and the warm breath of Pete’s hushed words, their physical manifestation on his body, lets Patrick shiver in disgust.  
“Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ …”  
Pete pulls up his head, and grins.  
“Make me.”

Patrick knows what to do next, he does it almost mechanically. He drags Pete over to the bedroom, almost stumbling over each other’s legs; but Patrick can lead the way blindly by now. They make their way towards the bed, Pete’s hands already on Patrick’s belt, impatiently undoing the clasp and wanting to remove the fabric barriers between them. The singer lets himself fall on the mattress, dragging the other man down with him. Pete stumbles on his knees, hands still on the fly of Patrick’s jeans. Dark eyes impatiently looking at Patrick, impossible to tell where the pupils end and the hazel iris starts, impossible to tell were sanity gives way to madness and lust and _something wrong_.

Patrick groans; the situation is less than perfect. He is positioned awkwardly and uncomfortably - after countless hours in the studio his back hurts and all he wants is to lay down. He suddenly feels older, drained. Did his lower back always hurt this much? Patrick really, _really_ , wants to just sink back into the awaiting pillows, giving his body a break. He doesn’t, instead he remains in a half-sitting, half-hunched position where it’s almost impossible to relax. But he refuses to show any weakness or any signs of giving in. That is simply not an option.  
Patrick lifts his lower body, allowing Pete to drag down the pair of pants that previously hid his erection, along with the boxer shorts. The half-undone clothes are down to Patrick’s calves, still restraining his movement and making it harder to spread his legs a little wider to allow the man in front of him a better access to his crotch. Patrick can’t bring himself to care though. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters anymore apart from the burning desire between his legs and the sweet, sweet-talking mouth that promises relief.

Pete licks his lips and fuck, that’s already a good image to start with. His lips are now glistening from saliva, and his tongue slides out between them, lazily and tempting. Patrick grips Pete’s still slightly damp hair (black, straightened, unwashed, colored, long, short, bleached; it has changed appearance over the years), subtly trying to guide Pete’s mouth closer to his dick. His impatience earns him a knowing grin, but Patrick’s past the point of caring about that.  
Pete’s mouth is dangerously close to Patrick’s penis; he can feel warm breath against his erection, and then he can feel the wet slide of Pete’s tongue against his bare skin. Pete starts with little pressure, just gentle sliding across the shaft, fingers ghosting on the singer’s heated flesh and white thighs. Patrick exhales sharply, his hands tightening around Pete’s hair.  


“Cut the crap, Pete. You can do so much better than this, I know that.”  


Pete sends him another grin, but his eyes are slightly narrowed. It’s a challenge, and he accepts.  
Pete might know the ways to wind up Patrick, but it goes both ways.  
He parts his lips, and finally, slowly, takes Patrick’s cock into his mouth.  
It’s welcomed by the burning hotness of the bassist’s mouth, along with the slick feeling of saliva and the rough surface of the tongue pressing against it. Patrick feels the suction, the friction of hot flesh against his own, and Pete’s head slowly bobbing up and down.  
Patrick’s grip loosens slightly, a sign that he is pleased with what the other man is doing right now. Pete’s heart skips a beat. He knows how to read all these little signs; Patrick is an open book for him. And pleasing Patrick is a pleasure to Pete far greater than he would ever admit.

He starts slow, once more enjoying to tease Patrick until he reaches the limits of his patience and starts to lose his temper, pulling harder at the Pete’s hair again and grunting inaudible dirty words. Pete doesn’t mind the rough handling. He gradually increases the rhythm, tongue swirling around Patrick’s dick and hands clenched into Patrick beautiful thighs, where Pete’s nails leave red trails on ivory skin. His fingers make their way to Patrick’s ass, but they are slapped away.  
“Not happening,” Patrick lets him know in a warning tone.  
_Whatever_ , Pete thinks. Possession of Patrick is good in any form, and the thought of a bossy Patrick penetrating him lets Pete’s dick twitch in an unmistakable manner.

 

There was once a time where Patrick would have come within a few minutes or less, and Pete would make fun of him for that. _Weak, Stump. No self-control, or am I just that sexy?_  
But not anymore, Patrick has learned to hold back or maybe his body just lost the juvenile sensitivity towards sex. Some would call it experience.  
Patrick yanks back Pete’s head by the hair, not paying attention if he causes any pain or not. “Stop,” he groans, and for a second there’s surprise and hurt and confusion on Pete’s face, mouth still open and drool all around his lips, chin, tip of his nose. Patrick likes the undignified look of the post-blowjob face, he enjoys that even pretty people like Pete can look awkward and stupid and so little like their usual self.  
But then the bassist wipes his mouth, and gains back his composure. A part of Patrick wants to brush away the hand and push Pete to the floor, or maybe push Pete’s still wet mouth back on Patrick’s own equally wet dick, just to surprise him. Just out of spite and the need to hurt, to humiliate. Just to see how far he can push boundaries. He doesn’t, and Pete climbs on his lap, slinging his tattooed arms around Patrick’s shoulders. “Having big plans for tonight, huh?” He teases, bringing his face closer to Patrick’s, his hot breath lingering on pale cheeks and strands of Patrick’s blonde hair (long, short, thinning, bleached, natural again – Patrick has never been as experimental as Pete with his hair).

Pete nudges his lower body against Patrick, and the singer can feel the other man’s erection through the rough fabric of the jeans covering it.

 

“Already hard just from blowing me?” Patrick asks in a mocking voice. “You’re still such a slut…”  
Pete just lets out a short, empty laugh. “You’re still using the same insults as always, remarkable. Can’t think of anything new?”

 

They’ve reached a stage where every word needs to hurt, intentionally or not. Every word is a shard of glass dragging into the other’s skin, every little victory - in form of flinching away or lingering tears behind closed eyes, all the little details you learn to pick up over the years - rewards a point in a battle that knows no real end, doesn’t even have a proper way of determining a score, yet they keep playing it.

 

Their fights have gained a routine. Sometimes, Patrick wants to break that routine. Push a little harder, scream a little louder, slam his fists against skin until there’s blood, until the skin beneath his hands has been marked with brightly colored bruises.  
He never feels the need to say “ _Stop_ ”, or the need to end it altogether, to simply get up and leave. The realization of how very wrong that is doesn’t cross his mind anymore.

 

Patrick wants to keep going, he wants to spit more venomous thoughts and hurtful words at Pete, but it’s getting more and more difficult the harder Pete grinds against him, the rough fabric of jeans pressing against Patrick’s still painfully erect – and completely exposed - penis. Patrick lets an unwanted moan slip out of his mouth, and gets another laugh in response.  
“Who’s the slut now, Stump?” Pete mocks, making sure to keep grinding against Patrick. “I know you want me, want to do all the dirty things, don’t you?”  
Patrick’s blue eyes narrow, and his hands grab Pete’s hips, stopping the bassist’s motions and pushing him off his lap. Patrick stands up, and kicks away the wrinkled jeans and underwear that previously clung to his calves.

“I liked it better when you used your mouth for something other than speaking.”

Patrick pushes Pete down on the mattress. It’s his turn now to hurryingly undo belts and zippers, impatiently drag down skinny jeans and boxer shorts until there’s nothing left but the delightful view of tanned skin, all naked and eagerly awaiting his touch. The clothes are tossed aside carelessly, and Patrick places his hands on Pete’s legs, running along tattooed skin.  
“Spread your legs,” Patrick demands, and Pete does, letting Patrick position himself between them. His shirt is riddled up, exposing his stomach and the tattoo. Patrick impatiently grabs the hem of the shirt, and pulls it over Pete’s head. It gets stuck for a few moments, and both men are struggling to get it off. Then, Pete lays on the mattress, his body completely exposed. His grin is all teeth and his eyes are all desire. “What about you, Patrick?” He purrs, tugging at the singer’s shirt. “Don’t be a tease, get rid of this.”  
  
One swift move, and Patrick’s own shirt is joining the pile of clothes on the floor.  
“Well, isn’t this a pretty sight,“ Pete remarks casually, his calloused fingers tracing Patrick’s tummy (pale, pudgy, chubby, skinny, always just a tiny trail of copper hair leading downward – he has possessed all forms of Patrick). Pete briefly remembers the time when he had to actively fight Patrick to remove his clothes, when he wouldn’t take off his underwear or even pants before Pete assured him it was alright, that he was _beautiful, Patrick, so beautiful, stunning, just what I like_ -  


Patrick left that in the past. He doesn’t need Pete’s approval anymore. Still, Pete’s voice sends a shiver down his spine. Even after all these years, there is still a tiny part of Patrick that beams with pride whenever Pete compliments him.  
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Patrick replies instead. No, he doesn’t need Pete’s reassuring anymore, he doesn’t need Pete’s approval, he doesn’t need Pete’s words and Pete’s compliments, doesn’t need, doesn’t need, _doesn’t need_ …  


Pete frowns, and Patrick takes the moment of silence to press his lips against Pete’s while running down his hands on the Pete’s body, once again exploring every inch of skin that he grew to know so, so well (gradually watching as the ink unfolded on the skin over the years, slowly demanding more and more space). Patrick feels the other man’s tongue against his own, sloppy kisses exchanged in the pre-coitus heat and impatient longing; he feels a pair of hands on his upper body, trailing down his sides, then gliding up again until they reach his face. Pete presses his index finger against Patrick’s lips, and his facial expression reveals nothing but lust and _want want want_.  
“Please, Patrick,” he begs, “put that mouth of yours to use and blow me, please…”

 

The singer nibbles at Pete’s finger, before slowly taking it into his mouth, sucking hard, gently letting Pete feel his teeth against his skin. His tongue slides against the bassist’s calloused finger, spit running down to the temple of his hands. Pete lets out a moan, and jerks his hips against Patrick’s. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, ‘Trick, just blow me already…” Pete squirms, his erection brushing against the other man’s stomach.  
Patrick continues to suck on Pete’s index finger for a bit longer, pink lips delightfully wrapped around toffee skin. Then he yanks back his head, giving the man lying underneath him a disapproving look.  
“Oh, you wish, Wentz,” he whispers, trying his best to sound composed. “But I might need my voice for recording tomorrow. No way I’m letting your dick anywhere near my throat, asshole.”  
Pete lets out a disapproving sound, but before he can insist Patrick’s lips are back on his, then they linger near his ears: “We can still have fun tonight…” Patrick is towering above him, and Pete is in no position to turn him down.

Patrick nibbles at Pete’s lower lip, then makes his way down to Pete’s throat, the thorn tattoo, caressing his nipples, then towards the navel and finally, down towards Pete’s dick. Pete regretfully remembers Patrick’s warnings about the lack of blowjobs from his side, but the singer still gives Pete’s cock a few strokes and some gentle kisses that send him into another moaning session of pleading. Please, Patrick, please, _please please please_ -

“You ready to take me in?” Patrick asks, and Pete almost laughs upon the other man’s thoughtfulness.  
“Sure, show me what you’ve got,” Pete manages to answer. Patrick blindly goes for the top drawer of the night stand next to the bed. He knows where Pete stashes the lube and condoms, and his experienced hands find the bottle with no trouble. The clinical sound of the plastic lid being opened and the lube being poured on Patrick’s fingers almost bring Pete back to reality, until Patrick’s smoothened fingers press against his entrance.  
“C’mon, Patrick, go!” Pete demands, only receiving a faint smile in response.

“You want me, Pete?” The singer askes, his voice laced with desire and his lubricated fingers still pressing against the bassist’s hole without making a move. “Tell me how much you want me. Tell me how much you need me!” Patrick commands, and Pete again is in no position to turn him down.  
He likes the controlling, bossy side of his best friend. He can fall back on not having to think, on not having to do anything besides obeying. Patrick takes responsibility for him. It’s either Pete’s dignity or Patrick’s dick, and right now the bassist has no trouble choosing the latter.

  
“Please, ‘Trick, I need you… Need your fingers, no, I need you, your dick, no, I need _you_ , inside of me,” Pete moans, no more shame about how much he wants his best friend to enter him, fuck him senseless, until there is no tomorrow and no consequences to be worried about. Patrick doesn’t move, not yet satisfied.  
“Please, pretty please?” Pete huffs, his voice almost inaudible.

  
“Well, Pete, if you inquire so strongly…” Patrick hums. And then the finally slips the first finger inside Pete. A wave of familiar pain hits him, then it ebbs away, leaving only the equally familiar feeling of pleasure.  
“More, ‘Trick,” Pete hisses, “need more of you…” He presses himself closer to Patrick’s hand, but the singer only cocks an eyebrow.  
“I know you need me, more of me, _everything_ of me that you can get. Isn’t that right, Pete?”  
“’s true,” Pete answers, and Patrick rewards him with slipping in a second finger.  
  
“I know it’s true,” Patrick says, and if Pete had more of his senses left he would have noticed the tiny sting of bitterness in the other man’s words. He doesn’t.

“I know it’s true,” Patrick repeats sweetly, slowly thrusting the two fingers in and out of Pete. The bassist is getting impatient; he grinds himself closer to Patrick, he lets out another moan, his hands clutch the sheets. _Fucking Patrick, daring to make him wait. Curse him for knowing how to piss Pete off. Screw him for having this much power over Pete._

“Goddamnit, Patrick!” Pete swears loudly, “enough with this, just fuck me already, okay?” His hands reach for his cock, but the singer stops him.  
“Don’t. I’ll be the one who decides on when and how we come,” Patrick announces, his words feeling harsh but his hands feeling so, so good in and on Pete. His unoccupied hand grabs Pete’s knee. “You need another finger?”  
Pete considers denying; but it has been a while. There is a certain pleasure to pain, but two fingers are already pushing the limit and Patrick’s dick is of noteworthy size. Not to be carelessly toyed around with. So Pete nods, and after receiving only a scornful look he starts pleading once more. If that’s what is needed to get Patrick into finally fucking him, that’s fine with Pete.  
“Yes, Patrick, please, more…” He moans, “I need more…”

Finally, Patrick follows Pete’s pleading, and adds a third finger. It takes Pete a few moments to adjust; but Patrick is gentle and careful, knowing the other man’s limits exactly by heart and muscle memory and too many years of experience. His fingers slide into Pete and curl upwards, generating more moaning and hip-thrusting and _yes, Patrick, fuck, keep going, please...!_  
  
Pete inhales sharply.  
“Please, ‘Trick, I need your dick, want you inside me, want your cock!”

Patrick pulls out his fingers, and places the hand formerly half-way inside his best friend on said best friend’s other knee, using both hands now to keep Pete’s legs up and bent closer towards the bassist’s face.  
“You want my dick, Pete?” He hums. “I’ll give you my dick, believe me, I’ll give you as much of it as you want to.” He angles a condom from the nightstand, and shoves it into Pete’s hands.  
“Go ahead,” Patrick hisses, challengingly. “if you want me that bad, you have to work for it. Hurry up and put the condom on my cock.” Pete happily obeys, though it takes his trembling hands a few moments to rip the plastic packaging, and successfully unwrap the condom on Patrick’s penis.  
The singer grabs the lube bottle, and pours more of the slick liquid on Pete’s right hand. “You’ll need it,” he says, “so make sure to spread it nicely.”  
Pete’s hand wraps around the condom-wrapped dick, spreading the lube all over it and eliciting a soft appreciative sigh from Patrick. He lets go, and suddenly Patrick’s penis is pressed against Pete’s entrance and Patrick’s eyes are fixed on Pete’s.

Then, Patrick’s dick is slowly entering him. Pete gasps, eyes widened, toes curled and knees pressed against the other man’s hands. Pete is sputtering nonsensical words, incoherent syllables that have no meaning. Patrick catches them with his mouth, and drowns them in his lips and tongue. His dick is halfway inside Pete, reaching deeper inside with each thrust. Pete’s own cock is painfully erect, sensible to every move the other man makes, reacting to every carefully executed move.

“Shit, ‘Trick, you feel so good, so amazing…” He whines, almost ashamed of how high-pitched and sincere he sounds.  
“I know,” Patrick answers through his teeth, “you need this, Pete, need me, need _me_ …”  
“I do,” Pete repeats the affirmations he has already made before; today, yesterday, every day if necessary. “I need you, need you, need you-“

Patrick is gradually increasing speed.  
“Please, Patrick,” Pete whimpers, “touch my dick, please, please!” The singer’s hands dig deeper into Pete’s chest, a scarlet landscape forming on the bassist’s skin. Still, Pete’s pleading doesn’t go unheard, as evidenced by Patrick’s hands moving down towards the other man’s penis.  
Patrick’s mouth moves towards Pete’s neck, lingers on his collar bones, his teeth meeting warm skin and willing flesh.

Suddenly Pete feels empty. Patrick pulled out, his erection hanging in the air between Pete’s legs and his eyes fixed on Pete’s face.  
“Turn around,” he commands. Pete gathers his limbs, and it takes him a few moments to move his body into the desired position.  
“Good boy,” Patrick rewards him mockingly, “seems you have at least enough brain left to follow the simplest of commands.” Before Pete can make any snarky retort, Patrick’s cock is back inside him full force, replacing every protest with nothing but irregular breath and incoherent words.

The singer’s hand find its way back to Pete’s dick, giving it intense strokes that drive Pete to the edge and send shivers down his body. Patrick thrusts into him again and again, his hand mirroring his hips’ movements.  
“’s that what you want, Pete?” He spits out, hand gripping the other man’s penis tightly. “That what you need?”  
“Yes,” Pete confirms, common sense abandoned in the prospect of an orgasm, eloquence forgotten in the face of his best friend’s cock buried deep inside of him, hitting just all the right places.  
_Yes, Patrick, I want, I need, want want want-  
_ Pete feels the words on the tip of his tongue, but his head is pressed into the pillows and _speaking_ , the act of moving his tongue and articulating what little thoughts are left in his brain, just seem like an impossible task. So he just moans higher and higher, pressing himself harder against Patrick.

“’Trick, don’t stop, I’m coming, don’t stop-“  
Patrick’s hand squeezes tightly around the tip of Pete’s dick, and the bassist can no longer hold back; behind closed eyelids, he can see fireworks.  
  


“You came already?” The singer asks, his pretty voice loaded with venom that slips right into Pete’s boiling blood. “Fuck, Pete, you’re so pathetic,” Patrick hisses. “So predictable. So little surprise and yet so much disappointment.”  
Each word feels like a heavy stone burdened to Pete’s chest; then again, it is nothing new. Pete is a disappointment, to everyone. Himself, his family, his fans, his band, so no surprise that even to his best friend, he is nothing but a letdown. Patrick is right, as always.  
“I know,” Pete therefore replies, high-pitched and broken up in the rhythm that Patrick’s hip thrusts dictate. “I know, I know, I know, ‘Trick, I know…”

Patrick’s teeth are on the bassist’s neck and his fingers clutch into tanned hips; he is balls-deep into his best friend who is still moaning into the pillow, still grinding against his dick. It only takes a few more thrust until Patrick comes, too. His grip on Pete’s hips tighten just a little bit too much, and they leave behind a trail of violet violence against tanned skin. Patrick’s brain clings out, flooding his body with relief _relief relief_ and oh, such passionate pleasure.

 

They stay in their positions for a few more moments, limbs entangled and bodies pressed together.  
Patrick pulls out, slowly.

  
The residue of lube on the condom leaves slippery blotches on Patrick’s fingers when he removes it and throws it into the trash can. _Gross_.  
His legs are slightly trembling, and he feels exhausted. Cold. Patrick is suddenly painfully aware of how naked he is, and standing in the middle of the room without clothes, and body sweat and the scent of sweat and sex clinging to his skin, he feels exposed.

Silence settles between them. Patrick makes his way to the closet and blindly grabs the first pair of boxer shorts and shirt, pulling the garments over his body.

Pete arches his back, bones cracking (when did they start doing this? He can’t remember). His neck feels kind of stiff, and he only slowly gains back control over his body. The delightful post-orgasm feeling is still humming through him, and for a few more moments, Pete relishes in it.

Patrick turns on the TV. Neither he nor the TV care for what’s on screen, but it is a welcome distraction for what reality offers. The silence isn’t awkward because neither one of them knows what to say; it’s awkward because they both know what to say, in too many repeated words.  


Pete inspects the marks on and around his neck, hips and collar bones in the mirror, and sighs in frustration.  
“That _really_ wasn’t necessary, Patrick.” He frowns. “Those are pretty visible.”

“Wear a high-collared shirt then,” Patrick just replies, seemingly unaffected.

Pete is left with a twinge of disappointment.

Through the lens of time’s kaleidoscope, Pete’s mind had painted an image of Patrick that was the tessellation of a thousand pictures of Patrick throughout all the years and every form of emotion ever displayed.  
Pete blinks once, twice, three times; now that the actual Patrick is in front of him, it takes him a while to fully associate flesh-and-bone Patrick with reality, and discard the carefully crafted illusion that his mind wants Pete to perceive.  
Pete blinks again (four, five, six) and slowly, the images begin to overlap, blending into each other and fading until only the image of the current Patrick sitting on the couch is left. The dissonance between the Patrick that his mind has crafted and the one that reality shaped is strangely unnerving.

Suddenly, Patrick’s bossy attitude seems so much less attracting and so much more annoying now. Suddenly, Patrick’s need for control just seems desperate, less of a composed adult in control, but more like a little boy who is afraid. Who just tries to take over the control to maintain functioning in a scary world full of incomprehensible chaos. Someone who is just as lost as Pete and somehow, that makes the him angry. Pete is already messed up enough, so why can’t the people around him just be perfect?

Patrick looks less confident now. His shoulders are slumped over; he’s biting his lips and avoiding Pete’s eyes. His blond hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and Pete’s shirt is too big for him. He looks sad and out of place. He clings his arms around his legs, which makes Pete even more angry. Patrick is supposed to be strong. He can’t be weak now. That’s just _selfish_.

Patrick’s eyes, though unfocussed, stay fixated on the brightly lit TV-screen.

“Did you pick a fight with me on purpose?” Patrick asks suddenly, breaking the silence between them.  
“I didn’t need to do that on purpose,” Pete answers, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Fighting with you just comes naturally, because you’re a bossy, controlling bitch and a nightmare to work with sometimes.”  
Patrick just looks at him in disapproval and slight disgust. “You’re a terrible liar. There you go again, trying to pick a fight,” he says, before turning away from Pete. His voice and whole behavior seems disinterested, and Pete gets angry. Patrick is supposed to pay attention to him. At all costs.

Pete wants to go for a second round, and maybe so does Patrick. The bassist is willing to find out.  
He moves closer towards Patrick, then his mouth is on soft lips and his hands trail along flesh, or the cotton under which it is currently hidden. Patrick doesn’t object. This time he is much more eager for skin contact and Pete’s touchiness.  
Pete can feel goose bumps forming under his fingers, and the former snide remarks are now replaced by huffed breathing.

His hands are once more slapped away when they try to make their way to Patrick’s ass.  
“I told you,” Patrick says once more, but this time sounding much less imposing, “not going to happen.”  
So, he’s determined on not being a bottom today. Fuck, Pete thinks, definitely disappointed. Wasted opportunity. He doesn’t press the issue, though; next time, maybe. Next time, Pete thinks, next time, _why do I know there will be a next time, even._ He pushes the thought away, instead pressing himself closer to his best friend’s body.  
“C’mon, Patrick,” Pete purrs, his smile all teeth and his hands all broken promises on Patrick’s skin. “I know you want more…”

“We need to stop this. We’re getting too old for this.”  
Pete laughs, looking at Patrick as if the singer was a small child who just said something incredibly sweet and stupid. “We’ll stop the day that we stop breathing.”  
It’s overdramatic, ridiculous and Patrick wants to deny, but someone else’s lips against his own and the tiny part of his brain that always believes Pete stop him from doing so. His hands find their way back to Pete’s hair (black, red, streaked, colored, bleached, and one day, nothing but withering skin, lifeless bones and then, nothingness).

Patrick shakes his head, but the lower lip caught between his teeth and his hand on Pete’s back make him question the denial. He gently kisses the lower lip still caught between Patrick’s teeth, nudges his gradually growing erection closer towards Patrick to confirm his desire.  
Patrick hesitates, fueling Pete’s anger. The mood has shifted, now that Patrick is slipping back into worn-out shirts and worn-out habits.

“Take me, Patrick,” Pete demands, words torn out of the air with his bare teeth. “What, something wrong? Forgot how to use your dick? Worried you won’t last enough to get me off? Afraid you’re too much of a bad lay-?”  
Pete knows it’s pure provocation, yet it works, again. Patrick’s face is red and angry, and his hands find their way back on the Pete’s body.  
Still, Pete is disappointed. Well-known power play, one that he always wins. Why is Patrick so weak, weak, _weak_. Patrick is supposed to be strong. Why does he fail Pete’s expectations again and again?  


Patrick pushes Pete aside, and stands up. “I’ll grab a condom and the lube,” he says, and Pete shakes his head in disapproval. “Don’t ruin the moment, just fuck me like this,” he proposes, only being met by Patrick shaking his head and making his way over to the nightstand, despite the other man’s protest.

“Fucking seriously, Patrick?!” Pete hisses, his voice now full of annoyance. “Won’t even fuck me raw even when I ask you to? You’re so boring, you know that? Perfect little Patrick, always safe, never takes a risk. Lame, dull-“ He is interrupted by Patrick.  
“You shut your mouth!” Patrick yells, surprisingly loud. “Fuck off Pete, seriously. I don’t want to hear about your pathetic fuck fantasies. Spare me that crap. You can go try it with whatever other slut you manage to drag into your bedroom, but no way my dick is going into your dirty insides without protection.”

“Yeah, what an insult, I’m truly wounded!” Pete retorts. “ _Fucking rich_ coming from someone who just let me suck their dick without a condom, and exchanged _copious_ amounts of body fluids with me in the past hours, hell, past years, decade-“  
“I said,” Patrick shouts, shrill and agitated, “shut your mouth!”

Patrick is trying to take back control, but Pete is bored of that game. He is angry. This time he wants to prove he can be just as good as Patrick, this time, he will take the control. Patrick will pay for being weak.

“You’re a hypocrite, Patrick,” Pete continues, “does wearing a condom for fucking me in the ass make you feel better? Safer? Does it let you forget my mouth on your bare cock? You feel less of a slut now? Better than me?”

“Oh, I _am_ better than you,” Patrick hisses, low and dangerously. “I don’t need a stupid condom to prove that. You’re going to have to put it on my penis anyway though if you want to go any further.”  
Pete feels something shoved in his hand, and Patrick grins, knowing that he won this argument even before Pete tears open the packaging and drapes the condom on the other man’s cock.

Pete drags Patrick down to the couch, and after a little adjustment Patrick is underneath him, a pretty sight of pale skin and blond hair (long, short, bleached, it doesn’t matter – it always ends up messy, and it always ends up caught between Pete’s fingers), blue eyes fixated on Pete.  
The bassist grabs the other man’s cock, and guides it towards his asshole. And although this is the second round, and plenty of preparation and penetration has happened already, it takes Pete a while to adjust again. He carefully inserts Patrick’s penis into him, glad that Patrick knows him well enough and is polite enough not to move right now. After a while, Patrick’s dick is fully inserted into Pete, and Pete starts to move more freely.

All Patrick can feel is heated skin against his own, Pete’s arching back forming a perfect curve; Patrick can trace Pete’s spine, bone by bone down to the part where flesh splits into two firm cheeks and a welcoming entrance into Pete’s body. Forgotten are the dull throbs in Patrick’s head and the uncomfortable couch. All his mind can concentrate on is the delightful view of too much exposed skin covered in tattoos, glistening from sweat, the delirious warmth of another body pressed so close to him, against Patrick’s lower body especially – the way Pete presses his thighs against him, _oh God_ – the hungry sounds escaping Pete’s slightly parted lips each time he presses himself closer to Patrick. The way that Pete’s hand is stroking his own cock. The obscene sound of Patrick’s wet dick slipping in and out in the rhythm that Pete’s hips dictate, overshadowed only by Patrick’s own occasional moans and further groaning from Pete.  
Patrick grabs Pete’s hips, wanting to take control over Pete’s movements, but his hands are slapped away and Pete stops for a moment, eyes angrily narrowed and a cruel smile on his lips.  
“Don’t you fucking dare, Stump,” he husks, and it takes Pete more self-control than he is willing to admit to keep his voice steady, “this time, I’m gonna decide when we come.” He rocks his hips once more, slow and seductive, eliciting another involuntarily surprised moan from the blond man under him.  
Patrick whimpers when Pete starts to move again and falls back into the rhythm, unable to protest whatever Pete had just said. Not that his brain could fully make sense of it anyway. All knowledge he has left is reduced to wanting to keep fucking Pete, to keep doing whatever is needed to continue, to never stop if possible. _Don’t stop, fucking don’t stop_ , Patrick thinks, unaware that these words also escape from his lips, making Pete smile again.

Pete loves how Patrick’s voice sounds unpolished and huffed and so little like his beautiful singing or the carefully crafted moans on silver CDs. It’s raw and sometimes ugly and awkward, there are little squeaks or broken incoherent syllables. Pete knows Patrick hates it when the world hears sounds so imperfect and uncontrolled coming out of his mouth, but Pete finds it irresistible. It’s his, and his alone. This voice belongs to him, in all its spectrum, the ugliness included. He alone deserves to hear it.  
He likes it when perfect little Patrick loses control, even more when he himself is the reason for said loss of control. Power over Patrick is what he desires right now.  


Patrick’s hands find themselves on Pete’s upper thighs, desperately clasping into them. He wants to hold on to the other body, he doesn’t want Pete to leave, to separate himself from Patrick’s own body ever again. And he wants to dig his nails deeper into the inked skin, leave brightly colored bruises and scarlet scratch marks from where his nails dug too deep into too soft skin. He wants to leave evidence, carve their tale into Pete’s skin like another tattoo.  


Pete inhales sharply when Patrick’s grip on his thigs is getting a little too much.  
“Stop that, Patrick,” he demands angrily, “the way you cling to me is just as pathetic as always. Wanna use your hands for good? Put them on my dick.” There’s no objection from Patrick, he just quietly relocates his hands to the other man’s penis, stroking it in a rhythm matching Pete’s hip movements.

Patrick’s hands know what they’re doing, the perfect amount of pressure and the somewhat clumsy, irregular strokes.  
“Fuck, ‘trick, fuck-! Can’t last much longer-” Pete can hear himself say, voice cracking and higher than usual. The response is an almost animalistic grunt from somewhere deep inside Patrick’s throat, followed by slurred words: “’s’alright, Pete, just come for me…”  
Pete barely holds back a high-pitched scream, then everything inside him tightens before bursting into a million pieces, flooding his body with heat and a level of pleasure he rarely feels in his life anymore. His nerves are burning, and his cock ignites a fire that consumes his whole body for a few delirious, seemingly never-ending moments.

  
Then Pete’s orgasm ebbs away, leaving him grasping for air. Slowly reality drips back in his brain, and he realizes Patrick is still under him, still _in_ him, dick still hard and his blue eyes, half-hidden under brown lashes, are begging for release. Pete grins; he might have had his orgasm (too soon for his liking; didn’t he use to last longer?), but there was still fun to be had with making Patrick plead, hearing his pretty voice used for ugly words.

Pete grabs Patrick’s wrists and pins them next to Patrick’s head on the couch, aligning their upper bodies and bringing their faces next to each other.  
“Mmmm, so good,” Pete hums, his lips brushing against Patrick’s, “you wanna come too, Patrick?” He gets an angry huff in response, can feel the words hushed against his cheek bones.  
“Pete, I swear, just _hurry up_!” Patrick’s face looks almost comically distorted, torn between pleasure, anger and confusion. His cheeks are bright red, brows furrowed and blond hair disheveled. It’s messy and heated and most important of all, it is Pete’s and Pete’s alone. This side of Patrick belongs to him, and Pete makes sure to gaze at the singer’s face for a few more seconds, carefully absorbing each detail and tucking away the mental image in his brain. _Mine and mine alone._ Nobody can take this away from him, ever.

Patrick makes a weak attempt to get his hands free, but Pete obviously has the advantage by being able to use his body weight to hold down his wrist. Patrick just lets him, thinking it doesn’t matter anyway. Bodies are still connected, and Pete is doing _things_ with his hips that send Patrick into oblivion and leave his brain all mushy and begging for _more, more, more_ …  


“What was that, Patrick?” The words come out sticky-sweet and barely reach Patrick. “I can’t hear you…” Pete’s voice, his thighs pressed closed to Patrick’s hips, his insides all hot and the words leaving his mouth all cold.  
“Show me you can be polite, Patrick. If _I_ can ask nicely for it, so can you.”  


“More,” Patrick gasps, his brain on autopilot and simply following whatever is required to keep going, “more, Pete, please, fuck…”  
He closes his eyes, partly to concentrate further on the ongoing rhythm of his dick sliding in and out of his best friend, partly so that he doesn’t need to look at Pete’s face anymore, which is twisted in an uncharacteristically cruel version of his usual grin, and whose eyes are staring at him blankly. Calculating.

  
“Pete, please, please, don’t stop-!”  
Eloquence has long left Patrick’s brain, and so has his care to whether his words make any sense. Syllables, each one of them a tiny pearl, strung together into an ugly necklace to twist around Pete’s neck.  
Pete doesn’t stop, doing his best to keep up the pace and adjust his movements to Patrick’s needs.  
“Oh fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” Patrick moans, voice high and almost inaudible. He presses his eyelids shut tightly, clings fingernails even deeper into skin that is not his own, body stiffening and voice full of desperation. _Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop-  
_ Pete’s grin widens. “’s alright, Trick, come for me…” he says mockingly, but Patrick has no sense or energy left to fight.

Then Patrick finally comes, blackness before his inner eye and his whole body tensing up, each nerve vibrating and desperate to cling to the joyous feeling of the orgasm rushing through them.

 

He finds back to his senses when he feels Pete adjusting his body, and slowly pulling Patrick’s already half-limp penis out of himself. Then Pete is gone, and suddenly Patrick is aware of how cold the air is, is reminded of the dull throbs in the back of his head, and notices the drying remains of someone else’s come splayed over his stomach.  
The aftermath of an orgasm is always so little appealing; Patrick thinks to himself as he tries to sit up. His back is aching, the result of being pressed against the hard couch. Pete is nowhere to be seen; the bathroom door is closed, and water is running. Patrick pries off the condom, and it joins its used twin in the garbage.

The bathroom door opens, and Pete brings him a wet towel, and start to rub away the milky stains and sweat from Patrick’s chest. The towel is surprisingly soft; it feels nice and soothing against his skin. Pete is gentle and caring in his movements, making sure to nicely clean up Patrick’s upper body as much as possible. Patrick feels himself loosen up, tension dripping out of his body.

  
“You can still take a shower,” Pete offers, and his voice is nothing but soft and friendly. No more malice. Patrick shakes his head. “Too tired. I’ll do that tomorrow.”  
Pete’s face brightens up. “So you’ll stay?”  
Patrick simply nods. He shudders at the thought of sneaking out like a criminal, throwing himself back into the cold night. He shudders at the thought of leaving Pete alone, and he shudders at the thought of being all alone by himself, too.

“Are you still mad at me?” Pete asks curiously and with only a hint of fear in his voice. Patrick just shakes his head.  
“I’m not.” It’s true, no matter how much it pains Patrick to admit this.  


“We need to apologize to Andy and Joe tomorrow,” Pete points out.  
Patrick looks at Pete, lower lip between his teeth again and hands wrung in his lap. The sudden dose of reality paints a confused look on his face. “Right,” he responds nervously, “we definitely need to apologize.”  
Pete clears his throat; it kind of baffles him that Patrick doesn’t seem to grasp the severity of their situation.

“The times have changed,” Pete says, “different things are at stake now. Andy and Joe invest a lot for this band, too. Time, energy, and missing out on time with their families. The hiatus happened once, and we all know now that there is a life outside the band. Sure, it was a hard time, but Andy and Joe… They sacrifice spending time and watching their _children_ grow up for this band, and they’ll think twice if this huge sacrifice is worth petty band drama and the same old bullshit that caused them to leave in the first place.”

  
Patrick’s eyes narrow, and his lips are a thin line. Pete can tell that it takes the singer all his willpower to stay calm. “I said I am not angry at you anymore,” Patrick says through gritted teeth. “We can just forget about it, and move on.”  
He almost adds “it won’t happen again”, but stops himself before. It would have been a pathetic lie. Maybe _“next time, we will hide it better, try to hurt less people”_ would be better-?

“I love you, you know,” Patrick whispers instead, the words escaping him against his will.  
“I love you too,” Pete says, hesitating. “I love you too. But that’s not enough.”  
There was a time when Patrick would have yelled, shoved Pete against a wall, wiped away angry tears with trembling hands. Demanded answers.  
_Why is it not enough? Am I not enough? Why isn’t it enough, why is it never enough for you, enough enough enough-_  
But now Patrick just stares at him blankly, before averting Pete’s eyes again; he misses the shudder running through Pete’s body.

Pete knows that there is still hope in Patrick that one day it will be enough, _Patrick_ will be enough, and that tiny piece of hope that the singer can’t tear from his heart keeps him going back again and again because surely, one day, if only he tries his best over and over, it will be enough.  
Pete knows it never will.

But a tiny part of Pete’s brain wishes it _will_ be, and that part is big enough to allow himself to keep asking Patrick to come back. Come back to him, to the band, to his life, because maybe one day, Pete is enough.  


“I’m going to bed. If you care to join me…” Patrick announces, obviously unwilling to further dwell on the complicated topic of love.

Patrick finds his boxer shorts and shirt, and climbs into the bed. The second he feels the soft mattress underneath him he feels a thousand times heavier, sleepier, older. Drained. Sleep indeed sounds like a good idea now, the simplest and least hurtful temporary escape from reality that life is offering to him.  
Pete lies down next to him, even though Patrick is not sure if the other man will even get any sleep tonight. It’s still nice, feeling the warmth of another body next to him. Having Pete’s body pressed against his own is so familiar, so comforting…  
For these few sacred moments, it feels like they might just be a normal couple at the end of an exhausting day, cuddling with each other, knowing they will brave tomorrow together. A normal couple, a suburban house with a white fence, a dog (or two, or three, or all of the dogs), a shared bedroom, _How was your day, darling? -_ Just enough.  
Patrick allows himself to indulge in these precious moments of delusion, before his conscious slowly fades out, and he falls asleep.

 

“Patrick?” Pete whispers, but he knows there will be no answer. Patrick is already asleep, his face relaxed and his rhythmic breathing being audible. He looks peaceful and so little like the angry, torn up version of himself that Pete had seen during the past hours.  
Pete considers waking him up. He wants to scream at him, he wants Patrick to be awake again and share the burden of being conscious with him, he wants to shout at his best friend until he wakes up again. _Don’t leave me alone. Don’t dare to leave me behind. Come back._  
Pete hates silence, he hates it when Patrick is quiet. Even fighting is better, it’s a confirmation that there is someone else to bounce back his thoughts, that someone is listening. It makes Pete feel alive.

Pete is left alone in the darkness of the night, the weight of the world on his shoulders and his eyelids heavy with the desire for sleep.  
There was once a time were insomnia had ruled his brain, kept him awake forever until the edges of reality became blurry and Pete’s body felt like a limp skin suit stuffed with cotton. Now he has meds, innocent little pills he makes sure to take regularly. They usually let him drift into a chemical sleep, like a heavy black blanket that gets draped over him, suffocating everything.  
In the silence of the night, Pete holds his breath and listens to his heartbeat; _pffft, pffft, pfft_ , always the same reassuring sound. _Pffft, pfft, pfft_ , he could count until infinity, or so he thought, a hundred thousand heartbeats a day, seven hundred thousand a week, forty-two million a year, the average male lives until around the age of 76, and that leaves his heart with how many beats? – No, _no_ , the answer is much too frightening.  
Counting his heartbeat is like counting backwards to death, a friendly reminder of mortality. Pete falls asleep to the sound of him dying.  
Androids may dream of electric sheep, but Pete dreams of nothing.

 

Pete wakes up when he feels Patrick moving away; the mattress is shifting and coldness replaces the warmth of another body next to him.  
It takes a while until the fog of the artificially induced sleep has cleared from Pete’s brain. By the time his consciousness has yanked him back into reality, Patrick is already in the shower.  
He feels fuzzy, like he still not properly back into the real world. He can still smell Patrick on the sheets, the cushion, his body. But when Patrick comes back into the bedroom, the atmosphere has shifted. Patrick is calm and collected, rational. He graces Pete with only a simple “Good morning” and a neutral glance.  
Pete watches him getting dressed, admiring the view but staying silent. He knows the window for sexual interactions has passed. They woke up in a different world than yesterday, and Patrick is ready to transition back to the sphere of normality.

“I’m on my way to the studio,” Patrick announces, sending one last glance to Pete. “I’ll swing by my place to change into something fresh though.” He frowns, before he continues: “Take you time, Pete. We shouldn’t arrive too close together. And wear something different than yesterday’s outfit.”  
Oh Patrick, always so rational, even when he is lying. Pete would have laughed, but he is sure that Patrick wouldn’t appreciate that at all.

  
“Also,” Patrick says, “you better find a good excuse for yesterday’s fight.” He sends Pete one last hateful look, full of unspoken accusations and unvoiced anger. “After all, you’re the one who provides the words, right?”  
Pete clears his throat; it’s not the time for arguing. And right now, all naked and messed up in front of the now perfectly put together Patrick, he feels like objecting would only further degrade him and fuel the pointless fight that tore them apart so many times before. “I will, ‘Trick.”  
Patrick smiles a little; the most honest smile Pete has seen in the past hours. “Thanks, Pete,” he says, and it’s the most sincere, uplifting thing to come out of the singer’ mouth since he entered Pete’s house yesterday night. It’s all Pete wants to hear. He will find all the words Patrick wants to hear, he will use all his syllables to build a better world for Patrick to live in.

Patrick gives him one last kiss; it’s a chaste goodbye-kiss on the forehead. It used to be Pete who initiated all these little interactions but over the years, Patrick caught up with him.

Patrick exits the room, and soon the front door shutting behind him.  
He leaves a Pete who is cowering in a bed that now clearly seems too small for only one person, head buried in his arms and shoulders slightly trembling.

 

Patrick arrives at the studio only a little late. Andy and Joe are already there, setting up the equipment and adjusting some technical stuff. Pete is missing.  
“Sorry for being late, guys! But I brought coffee,” Patrick announces, placing a small takeout tray on a nearby table away from any electronics. It contains four cups. _It’s not like I knew that Pete is not here yet.  
_ Joe and Andy come over, closely inspecting Patrick’s offering. Joe’s eyes scan the label, before handing one of the cups to Andy. “Here,” he says, a friendly mocking undertone in his voice, “guess the politically correct vegan soy _beverage_ goes to you.” Andy just sends him a look, but doesn’t take the bait.

Patrick expects to be scolded for yesterday’s behavior, but he is mostly met with silence. Apparently, his band members want to wait for the other guilty party to make his appearance. The three men exchange only a few words of small talk, and Patrick tenses up.  
Finally, Pete arrives, an apology on his lips and a T-shirt (different from what he wore yesterday, Patrick makes sure to take note of that) carefully arranged over his collar bones.

“So,” Andy asks, eyebrows raised, “did you two resolve your little argument yesterday, or is there going to be pointless and annoying fighting today again?” Patrick looks over to Pete, and the bassist offers everyone an apologetic look that is surprisingly sincere.  
“Look, guys,” Pete starts, fiddling with his hands, “I’m really sorry for yesterday. I guess Patrick and I just got caught up in our old fighting routine too much. I know we were a pain in the ass. But we decided to be reasonable adults again, and we decided that we should work on the problem together. I mean, with _all_ the band members. This is the new Fall Out Boy, and we don’t want to drag the old bullshit into this again. So,” Pete opens his arms, “will you two accept the apology, and lend us your musical talent, too?”

Now Andy and Joe exchange a puzzled look; this was apparently not the answer they were expecting. Then, Andy smiles a little, looking less frightening now. “That’s nice of you guys,” he scorns, but it sounds mild. “Seriously though. For a moment, you had us worried…”

Patrick’s shoulders tense, but Joe speaks up before silence can fill the room.

“Yeah, I’m glad you could solve this like actual adults. I really wasn’t in the mood for this fighting crap again. We’ve worked so hard to get the band back together…” Joe runs a hand through his unruly hair, giving both Pete and Patrick a stern look. They both have no trouble to look guilty, because they are. They also don’t have trouble being sorry, because they are. Guilt and regret are probably the default feelings above everything, the low-key undertone humming through every fiber of their being. It’s surprising how easily used you can get to it.  
Andy clears his throat, and his smile widens. “So,” he starts, “about that musical talent you wanted…”  
Joe now grins too. “I got some great ideas. Let’s put this argument behind us, and go to work. Together,” he says, and there is actual happiness in his voice now.  
Patrick feels a sting in his heart, though he is not entirely sure why. Pete’s grin is basically beaming. “Together!” The bassist repeats, and Patrick knows that there is real joy in Pete’s voice too.

And something in Patrick’s brain clicks; he is back in the layer of reality where he is in a band with three of his closest friends in the world, where they are a creative union working together. Where he and Pete are best friends who laugh together and share their junk food and don’t hurt each other, intentionally. Where everything is just _fine_.  
If you repeat a lie for long enough, not only do you start to believe it, but it becomes a reality.

Patrick just concluded that questioning his relationship to Pete is pointless anyway. It doesn’t matter, does it. They’re doing fine, everything is fine so really, there is no need to _de_ fine anything. Sometimes, best friends are weird, and the lines between love and hate are blurred and mixed together.  
If you love someone like Pete, you just need to take what you can get, and grit your teeth through everything else. The screaming is worth it when you know that there will be soft whispers against you skin, coming from the same mouth. The hurtful words hurt so much less when the lips they came from kiss yours, trail down your neck and find their way to other places on your body. It doesn’t matter if it breaks your heart, because your heart always grows back together.  
  
Patrick adjusts his hat, and Pete tugs the collar of his shirt.

Patrick’s three bandmates pause in the doorframe, and send him a questioning look. Pete rolls his eyes, a goofy grin still on his face. “We’re not gonna wait all day, Patrick! There’s work to do,” he says. “Come over.”

And Patrick does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you actually read through the whole thing, please know that you have my sincerest gratitude! (And let it be known that I am sorry for like, everything, so, so very sorry. I'm just shameless trash.)
> 
> This is my first fanfiction in years, and my very first fanfiction in English. In fact, it's also the first time in a long time that I have actually written something in English aside from random comments on the internet, and I feel like my language skills dropped siginificantly. :(  
> And it is my first smut, too!  
> I can sill see soooo much flaws in this work, but I am honestly just too tired of editing and re-writing and I felt that it's better to put it out and hear someone else's opinon than to go over it in my head again, and again, and again to the point where everything becomes pointless anyways.
> 
> So please feel free to point out any mistakes, weird phrasings, or general impressions.   
> I am open to criticism, and I would love to hear thoughts and opinons. Please feel free to share both with me in the comments, it would really mean a lot to me!~


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